Dark Bargains
by McKinney-Wylis
Summary: A bomb, a gun, and certain death - until Sherlock opens his mouth and leaves John in the dark. Direct storyline pick-up from THE GREAT GAME.
1. Chapter 1

_Oh God, we're going to die..._ Somehow the thought pissed him off far more than scared him. Snuffed by this...there wasn't a word low enough for Moriarty. _I did not survive a bloody war to be snuffed by some barking schoolboy with delusions of grandeur in a deserted rec center in Chiswick!_

Time to think. He'd finish hyperventilating over the damn bomb later.

_Okay. Sherlock shoots the bomb, it goes off in every direction, but the floor is an obstacle. The explosion will go out and up before it goes down...pool roof is a bubble, not solid...minimal debris from that, it's lightweight, it'll fly out rather than crash back in. Into the pool is safest. Probably damp the concussion enough we might just stay conscious enough to not drown. But it's got to be at exactly the right second. Too soon and I'll make him miss; too late and I'll get shot by the damn snipers before I can reach him. Shit, I'm probably going to end up with real shrapnel in my leg this time...can't be helped..._

He watched Sherlock's eyes narrow ever so slightly, watched full lips curve...John eased himself onto the balls of his feet. Just enough leverage to act as a spring, pushing Sherlock and himself into the pool hopefully a nanosecond before the explosion. He saw a slim finger tighten on the trigger of the Browning...a hair more...a hair more...

"You would now, wouldn't you? Blow yourself up just to get rid of me." Jim's smile didn't carry quite as much bravado this time. "Your pet's a bad influence. I should have brought us together two months ago; it would have gone so much nicer. No pesky hero complex getting in the way."

"Perhaps." Sherlock's lips curved just enough John noticed. Probably no one else would. "I believe I have re-evaluated my stance on heroes. John's quite heroic, you see." The gun never wavered. "So, yes. I will detonate your bomb, bringing down this building and killing us all. And before you think of signalling your snipers, allow me to remind you that a shot to any portion of my body will cause my finger to spasm on the trigger. My aim might be thrown off. Or it might not." His voice turned icy. "Any harm to John and I will destroy you."

_What? _Not that the idea of Moriarty in little pieces bothered John at all. But why was Sherlock still talking to him? _God, just do it and don't make me stare at death too long._

"Stand-off then. How boring." Moriarty tried for one of his manic smiles, but it didn't quite work. Something lacking there.

"Not a stand-off. A negotiation." The ice hadn't melted from Sherlock's tones. "One from which we can all walk away alive and relatively happy."

"Are you _insane_?" John couldn't possibly have heard him right. "You don't negotiate with a...a monster like that." Something very Not Good settled in the icy depths of his gut, honing his voice to a whispered steel edge. "Pull the bloody trigger, Sherlock!"

"Be quiet, John." A gentle order, but it infuriated John. Sherlock never shifted his gaze from Moriarty.

"Ooo, puppy barks at you, Sherlock. You need to train him better. I suggest a muzzle." The madman didn't have any problem turning his dark, glittering eyes John's way. "He'd look good in a ball gag. I'd go with blue for his coloring."

_Bastard_. Yeah, every passing second, John had less problem dying if he took that fucker out.

"I get my hands on you, you sodding bastard, I'll squeeze your balls bloody blue." The urge to test the reflexes of the several snipers with laser sights trained on his chest tightened John's muscles in a savage flinch.

"John."

The "please" went unsaid. Sherlock never said it. But John always heard it.

"Fine."

The barest flick of Sherlock's eyes struck John. Less than the time it would take to blink. Still enough to make his breath hitch.

_Trust me. Believe in me. _

_Please_.

John let his head dip in a tiny movement, less even than when he'd agreed to death. _I trust you. _He saw the calm settle over Sherlock then. Read it in the way the line of the detective's jaw smoothed, in the deeper rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Whatever happened, John had at least given Sherlock peace.

Full lips parted, Sherlock's rich voice confident and mellow. "So, what do you say, Jimbo? Your little gunmen toddle off, and we all walk out of this to play another day."

"Well, I'm hardly going to call them off while you're still holding a gun on _me_, now am I?" Moriarty's glaze flicked to John again, a sneer not even barely veiled. "Hanging around the idiots too much, Sherlock. Bad for the brain." He shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders. "But I suppose the extras can go for the moment. Leave you one each."

"Good enough for a start." The red dots playing over Sherlock's dark coat winked out until only one remained. "Since we're talking symmetry, John should leave. He can call me when he's outside in a taxi, on his way somewhere safe."

"Like bloody hell I'm leaving!" John shot up to standing, fists curling, but didn't move otherwise, allowing the red dot to fix itself over his heart again. "Sherlock—"

"Negotiations, John. Give and take from each side." Sherlock's lip quirked in a faint smile. "This is actually a very simple example of the art, isn't it, Jim?" He twisted Moriarty's name into something precise and distasteful. "John lives; you live."

Moriarty had the gall to shake his head and smile, like he was tolerating the logic of a toddler. "So attached. You really must learn to distance yourself from your amusements, Sherlock. Fine; the good doctor can leave." The smile hardened, rendering the master criminal's narrow face into something very like the macabre skull sitting on the mantel back at Baker Street. "In fact, I insist. We don't discuss any further negotiations until he's at least a kilometre away from here. Out of your immediate radar. Isn't GPS wonderful?"

"It is." Sherlock's free hand snagged John's wrist, fingers digging in so tight John knew there'd be bruises. "Not a taxi. Call my brother. Trust no one else. Text me when you're in one of his cars."

"I hope you know what you're doing." The words slid out from between John's clenched teeth as he pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. Thank God he didn't get an answer phone. "Mycroft, it's John. Sherlock said I need to ask you for a ride back home. I'm at—" He blinked as precise tones spoke his exact location. _How the hell..._ Then again, CCTV. "Yes. Thank you." He ended the call and hoped his shrug looked nonchalant. "Happened to have a car in the area. Some political mess, as usual."

"John."

Was that a warning not to say too much in front of Moriarty? Or... Was it a good-bye? When did all the air leave the bloody place?

"Don't look at me that way. I won't do anything stupid." Of course, Sherlock hadn't bothered to even look at John.

"Home again, home again, Johnny-boy." Moriarty held up one hand and wiggled his fingers in a wave, the damn sing-song back in his voice. "Time for the big boys to play now. Run along."

_Yeah, how'll you like it when I twist your arm around and shove that hand up your arse? _John took the time to glare at Moriarty, letting his face say it all. "Don't take too long, Sherlock. You know I hate waiting." The laser on his chest vanished; a moment later he heard the clunk of a door closing and heavy footsteps fading away. He turned and walked out of the rec center, every step a cringe, waiting for one final report of a rifle to signal the death of his friend and the beginning of a life centered on hunting down Jim Moriarty and making sure the man died _very_ slowly and _very_ painfully.

A chill fog hugged the parking lot, half-shrouding the long black car loitering by the exit. John waited until one back window cracked just enough he recognized Mycroft Holmes. He didn't wait for an invitation to get in.

"Good evening, John. I assume this has something to do with my missile plans." Mycroft reclined at ease, umbrella at his side. "Though I fear that little problem has taken a nasty turn." His mobile lips turned down. "What has my brother gotten into now? Do tell, doctor."

"Drive. Just drive. One kilometre, any direction. Quickly." Relief sagged John's shoulders when Mycroft immediately signaled the driver without further interrogation. John pulled out his phone, staring at the black screen with his gaze unfocused, too many equally dark thoughts fighting for queue space in his panic-shrunken brain.

OUT OF YOUR VICINITY. NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE. JW

_God, let me get an answer._


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft ordered the driver to stop at exactly one kilometre, then turned a solemn gaze on John. "You'll tell me what's going on now, yes?"

"In a second." John typed out the name of the bouncer on shift at the door of _Thelonius_ so Sherlock would know they were a proper distance away. He stared at the blank screen for a good thirty seconds after, waiting for an answer, an acknowledgement, _anything._

"John?"

"In a minute." The screen remained unchanged. "Come on. Come on!" A full minute passed. "God damn it!" It took all John's control not to fling the phone against the window of the car. "Why the bloody hell hasn't he gotten out and answered me?" He glared up at the roof. "He promised he wouldn't do anything stupid."

"Doctor _Watson_." Mycroft's impatient voice was too similar to Sherlock's for John's nerves. "What is going on and how can I help?"

"Your brother...your idiot brother is in that stupid rec center with the madman who's been blowing up most of London for the last few days." John ran a shaking hand through his hair and settled it against the back of his neck. Oh, to have it holding a gun, sights firmly on a spot right between Moriarty's piggy little eyes. It wouldn't shake then. Nope. "He's talking. Fucking _talking_ to Jim Moriarty about who lives and who dies." John slammed his fist against the armrest. The phone lay silent. John blew a breath out through clenched teeth. "Apparently I live."

"He sent you away as part of..." Mycroft stopped abruptly and pulled out his own phone, hitting a speed dial. "Code Five, urgent. Enclose and secure all persons at the following coordinates." The address of the rec center followed. He plucked the phone from John's hand. "Leave it here. It will mask your return. Or rather, ours." He opened the door and got out, moving swiftly toward a second black car which had just pulled up. "After you, John. A team will descend on the area in exactly three minutes. I expect you'll want to be present when Sherlock comes out."

"Oh hell yeah." He looked with longing toward the phone, his link to Sherlock.

"You'll be notified the instant there's a message." Mycroft gestured to the waiting car.

"Right. Minions and all that, as Sherlock says." Present tense. _Because he's fine. _John refused to believe otherwise. The stupid git just had to show off his huge intellect; that was all. Just keeping Moriarty talking 'till Mycroft got there with the might of the British government behind him. Right. John slid into the auto and buckled up. "Let's get moving, then. Faster the better and all that."

The return kilometre felt like it took an hour, every taxicab and lost tourist in London deciding to pick this route. John kept glancing at Mycroft's breast pocket, where he knew the man's phone was. He barely managed to keep from prodding the driver to go faster, keep from flinging open the car door and jumping out to sprint the rest of the way. The tremor in his hand wasn't intermittent now. Nor the one squeezing his heart.

How could Mycroft be so bleeding calm? John wanted to break every window in the car. He wanted to scream his lungs out. He barely restrained himself from punching Mycroft in the face when the other man laid a restraining hand on John's arm as they pulled up near the rec center. "Wait. It isn't safe. My people are just arriving. They'll go through it first."

"They were in the pool area. There were snipers above, laser sights, from around the balcony somewhere. I never saw..." His lungs tried to seize up again. "Explosives...a vest..." He pulled against Mycroft's grip. "Please—"

"Stay here." Mycroft retrieved his phone and keyed whatever super-spy speed dial he needed. "The pool area. High probability of explosives. Be aware of sniper activity, but very mindful of civilians, especially the possibility Sherlock Holmes may be present. Of course, he's to be unharmed." Mycroft managed to make a perfectly blank expression an eye-roll. "He's to be protected." He put the phone away. "Sit back, John. There's nothing we can do at the moment."

"Try calling him. I've already texted him twice. They won't be surprised if I try calling." _Think, John. What did Sherlock say before you left? How did he say it? There's always subtext. Think_. Problem was, thinking clearly got mixed up with about a dozen scenarios featuring Sherlock at the mercy of Jim Moriarty. And John knew a _lot _of ways to imagine how that might go. Very, very bad ways.

Mycroft inclined his head, the phone sliding back into lean fingers. _Too much like Sherlock's_. Seconds trickled away, pooling in John's diaphragm. "Hello."

John's whole body leapt to attention, scooting forward on the seat, leaning close to Mycroft, ears straining for a hint of a rich baritone.

"Ah." Ginger lashes swept down, hiding blue eyes. John's heart stuttered. "This is Mycroft Holmes. Please bring the phone to me at once. Yes. Thank you, no. No, you've performed admirably." Mycroft's throat worked for a moment. "That was one of my operatives. They heard Sherlock's phone ringing and found it abandoned beside the pool."

"Abandoned?" No. Sherlock would never voluntarily leave his phone— John lurched forward, yanking at the door handle, snarling when it didn't open. "I'm going in there. Right now. You better tell them, because you're not stopping me this time. I'll rip the door off the hinges if I have to."

"John." Mycroft reached out, but had sense enough to let his hand fall back. "It won't do any good. Sherlock isn't there. My people have been through the whole building. There's no one there. It's empty."


	3. Chapter 3

John stared out the window of Mycroft's car, barely feeling either the pain in his knuckles or the generous ice pack Mycroft had crafted from the wet bar. One of the steel changing stalls in the pool area now sported a rather deep dent, courtesy of John's temper that Sherlock hadn't left so much as _one_ clue as to where he'd gone or if he was all right. The absence of any blood was the only thing that prevented John from tearing the changing stalls right out of their braces.

"Nothing?" He didn't turn to Mycroft; he could see the other man's reflection in the darkened window glass. "I thought you were the British government? It's been almost five hours. The sun will be up soon." He struggled to keep his voice low and steady. To keep it from shaking. To keep from shouting. "Five hours, Mycroft. Your people are supposed to be the best. You can follow me with every camera in London, call me on every phone. Why can't you bloody find where that maniac has taken Sherlock!" _Okay, lost that battle_.

"It would appear James Moriarty is more resourceful than I'd been led to believe." Mycroft took the killing glare John shot at him with only a minor flinch. "There's been chatter for several months, but nothing concrete to link him to a crime. We decided it best to leave the particulars to Scotland Yard for the moment. This is the first time Moriarty himself has gotten directly involved, so when we apprehend him this time he will be arrested and incarcerated. For kidnapping, certainly. Whether we can make any of the other crimes you and Sherlock have been working on stick, well..." Slim shoulders lifted. "We'll just have to see."

"Fuck that. I'm putting a bullet in his brain." John had moved far beyond caring what Mycroft planned. "Moriarty became a dead man when he tried to kill Sherlock."

Mycroft blinked, but wisely said nothing. John wondered darkly if Mycroft's government position was high enough to make a premeditated murder charge go away, or if some things were beyond even his power.

_Wait. My gun. Sherlock had my Browning. It wasn't at the pool._ That meant one of two things: Sherlock still had it in his possession, or it had been confiscated. Which meant Moriarty had it. The sudden and oxygen-stealing image of that familiar weight pressed up against the back of Sherlock's neck, execution-style, threatened to have John's dinner decorating the black leather interior of the limo. His hands went from tremor to full-blown shakes.

"John?" Mycroft, Sherlock had once explained, had greater deductive powers than any man in England.

"Take me to Baker Street. When Sherlock gets free, he'll head home." And Sherlock would head home. John couldn't think anything else. So why wouldn't the image of John's Browning nosed into ebony curls go away? God damn it! He managed a shaky breath. "I'll wait for him there. It's what he'll expect."

"Of course." Mycroft gave the instruction to the driver. Thank God, he didn't try to make conversation on the way; he simply sat, hands resting on the handle of his umbrella, and gazed out the window. Whether he was simply lost in thought, or pointedly avoiding watching John shake, John didn't much care. The gesture was appreciated.

The door to 221B held a reassuring solidity as it closed behind John. He leaned against it a moment, lungs tight. "Sherlock?" Foolish. Stupid and foolish, but he had to do it. "Are you here?" _Please_. Nothing. The ambient peaceful sounds of the flat. John didn't want quiet. He wanted the raucous chaos of Sherlock. The thunder of too-big feet, the clatter of computer keys, the rumble of a velvet baritone filling the rooms with sound and sometimes fury.

John slid down the door, staring at the still emptiness of the flat. "Dear God, Sherlock, where are you?"

* * *

><p>)<p>

* * *

><p>Too quiet. Damn it, the flat was too bloody fucking quiet. John could hear every second tick by via the clock on the living room wall. The human skull leered at him from the mantelpiece; the cow skull with its headphones and vacant black eyes stared down from the wall in accusation. Even the scattered glints of beakers and test tubes littering the kitchen table seemed to mock and brand him a traitor.<p>

_You left him. You left, and now he's in the hands of a madman God only knows where._

The tea in his mug made concentric circles as guilt quaking in his brain transferred to his hand. _I walked away. _ Sherlock was out there, alone, because John had given in and walked away. "I should have stayed." The tea sloshed over the rim and onto his hand, hot but not hot enough to burn. Burn would have been good. Why the hell didn't it burn? The mug made a nice sound as it shattered against the wall, almost musical.

"God damn it! I should have _stayed_!" The bowls and plates stacked by the sink went next, the white china shards a blizzard against the blue tile. If John threw hard enough, maybe the shrapnel would make it back to him.

The glasses joined the china. "I know better than to leave you alone! You always get into serious trouble when I'm not with you." Crystal fragments sparkled on the air, tinkling against each other and the dishes.

He grabbed at something on the table, then stopped when he realized it was one of Sherlock's chemistry flasks. _No. No, I can't break that. He'll need it when he gets back._ He set it very carefully on the sideboard by the fridge. There were plenty of other, far less precious, things to break.


	4. Chapter 4

"John."

The voice from the landing brought John's head up fast. He'd been sitting there, head on his arms on his knees, his shoulders half-wrapped in the warm and too-familiar scented folds of the Coat. Sherlock hadn't taken it with him to the pool; he'd left it and the scarf hanging on the balustrade between the main part of the flat and the stairs to John's bedroom. John would never have presumed to actually put it on, but sitting where it could partly embrace him helped him manage to draw oxygen still.

The flat was a mess of shards and tatters. John's temper had finally come to a halt when he realized the only things left to throw were Sherlock's. And he would not do that.

"Have you heard something, Mycroft?" Hope and fear leapt with equal strength, settling somewhere right behind John's tongue, making it hard to swallow or talk. He pushed away from the folds of wool, gaining his feet, moving to unlock and open the door.

"No. But Mrs. Hudson phoned me. She was...rather concerned about the crashes and then the sudden quiet. I told her only that Sherlock seems to have gone missing. No details." Mycroft followed him, stopping just inside the door. "Are you—" The man stopped, taking in John's glare at asking an obviously stupid question. "Have you slept at all?"

"Have you?" _If you have, I might push you down the stairs, you unfeeling bastard._ Evidence of just how deeply John felt crunched under John's shoes as he moved toward the sitting room. "I'd offer you tea, but..." He spread his hands. "Still nothing?" Nausea threatened for the hundredth time.

Mycroft shook his head as he sat down in the chair by the sofa after wiping it clean of any glass fragments. "It may be my own hope rather than logic, but no word at all could mean something positive. Wouldn't Moriarty want to crow a bit, to you in particular, if he was...being abusive? That he isn't may mean Sherlock is fine, simply not at liberty to contact us."

John had given up on the soft, hopeful path long ago. Each tick of the clock buried it a bit deeper in an icy grave. "What happened to that Holmesian reliance on logic and reality?" John leaned against his favored armchair. "Moriarty doesn't think I have the brains to be worthy of one of his games. I'm a pawn. If he knows about you, he might send you something, but I don't think he knows. So no. We won't know a damn thing until Scotland Yard starts finding pieces of Sherlock scattered across London." He clenched his hand to stop its shaking.

Apparently even Mycroft Holmes had a limit when it came to horrifying conjecture. The man's face paled a good four shades and the normally cool eyes filled with genuine trepidation. Long fingers nearly crushed the fine handle of the umbrella and a very visible swallow bobbed a narrow Adam's-apple.

Once freed of the confines of his mind, John couldn't stop it, though. "I was in Afghanistan. I've seen what men can do to other men in the pursuit of pain, Mycroft. And those were just tribesmen, just terrorists. What do you think a sick, psychotic fuck with a genius brain can come up with? That's all I've been thinking about. He's out there somewhere facing that alone."

"And you feel guilty for leaving, for doing what he asked you to do." Mycroft's color hadn't improved much, but his voice shook less. "I've been thinking a great deal about the details you gave me while we were waiting for my teams to go over the building. This...game Moriarty was playing. And of course, Sherlock likes nothing better than a chess match with an agile mind. But this...you have no reason to feel guilty, though I know that will not prevent you from doing so. But I ask you for a moment to listen without argument. It's something I think you should know."

The temptation to ask Mycroft to just go nearly won out, but John sighed and nodded. "I'll listen."

"I understand your anger. Perhaps the feeling Sherlock agreed with Moriarty that you were not...up to the challenge of their battle?" He nodded slightly at John's glare, reading far too much for John's comfort. "But that wasn't why he asked you to leave. I've been watching my brother for months now, since he met you, since you came together. And I have seen a change." Now the umbrella was laid on the coffee table, Mycroft sitting forward a bit and resting his arms on his knees, his hands clasped. "John, he did it to save your life. I have never known my brother to do anything simply for the sake of another person's welfare. Never. And while I understand you're angry and frightened—and before you assume, let me assure you that I am as well—you don't realize what you've wrought in him. Simply by being his friend. He will never say it to you, never let on, but you deserve to know it." Slim hands moved to rub over a face as exhausted as John felt. "If—_if_—he is dead, then he died with more nobility than I ever imagined him capable of having. And that is your doing."

Long minutes trickled by, Mycroft still and unmoving. Dear God, Mycroft thought Sherlock loved John. As a friend or more—whatever sort of love didn't matter. This had all been because Sherlock couldn't bear to see John hurt.

John stared at the long figure, so like and so totally different from the one he wanted to see. "I'd rather Sherlock hadn't given a rat's arse about me. I'd rather he was the coldest bastard in all London if it meant he was sitting on that couch right now. I'd put up with him treating me like the pet that maniac thinks I am if it meant he was here. I'd sooner be dead."

"I know." Mycroft didn't look up, just rubbed at his temples, his voice heavy. "I have no doubt the two of you would die a thousand times over for each other. But I also know you would fight all odds to live for each other as well. Don't give up on him, John. Don't start referring to him in the past tense already. Because I fear if you give up, so will I."

"Don't you dare." Rage flared. "I can't do anything but wait. You, though, you're the freaking government. You get out there and do whatever you have to. You harass anyone you can. You roust the fucking Prime Minister out of bed with whoever he's screwing if that's what it takes. You pull in every marker you have and call everyone who owes you. You blackmail anyone who might know something. Get the President of the United States to declare that Moriarty has weapons of mass destruction and he's going freaking invade if we don't find the bastard! You do whatever it bleeding takes to find the slag!" John tipped his chair so hard it nearly hit the fireplace. "Until you find Moriarty or you find Sherlock, I don't want to see you." John's fingers curled with the need to hit Mycroft. How dare he talk about giving up! How dare he?

The faintest trace of a smile quirked one side of Mycroft's mouth as he straightened, retrieved his umbrella and rose, brushing down his suit jacket. John could almost see the polished veneer settle back into place. "Done. Shall I have someone come in to help...clean up?"

"I'll handle it." John's jaw clenched so tight he barely got the words out. "Just concentrate on your brother." If he moved, he feared he really would deck Mycroft.

"All right then." Mycroft moved to the door. "We'll keep looking, John. We will find him."

"You do that."

A pause. "Should I have a bit of breakfast sent round? As you're rather short on dishes at the moment."

"No."

Mycroft nodded once more. "In that case, I'll leave you to it. Good morning."

"Yeah. Morning." It wouldn't be good until Sherlock came home.

John waited for the sound of Mycroft's receding footsteps and the closing of the door downstairs before he let his shoulders slump. He stared at the skull on the mantel. "Well, mate, looks like you and I need to settle in for a while. Don't suppose you have any ideas? No, I didn't think so." John left Sherlock's only other friend to silent contemplation and went to find the broom and dustpan. Cleaning up would at least fill a portion of the empty hours that stretched ahead of him.


	5. Chapter 5

The flat was spotless. In the interest of trying to fill up time, John had even tidied up the bookshelves and washed every beaker and test tube in Sherlock's chemistry set. They stood in neat rows on the sideboard now, crystal soldiers awaiting a mission.

It hadn't helped.

It had dulled his thoughts, prevented him from sinking too deep into his own too-vivid scenes of the sorts of things Sherlock could be enduring, but it couldn't soothe the rage or the guilt. And now there was nothing left to clean.

Nothing left to keep John's too-active imagination from providing high-definition video of everything Moriarty could and likely was doing to Sherlock. Flashes of snowy skin streaked with crimson, of dark curls matted with more of that precious rich red, set the pain deep in John's leg. He pressed his hands against his ears to shut out the heart-wrenching screams only he could hear.

"Sherlock..." The ringing shout in his mind clamped down to a whisper over his lips as he barely missed his armchair, the seat cushion scraping up his back as he landed hard on the carpet in front of it. The sonorous echo of Moriarty's voice cranked up to fill every open space between John's brain and his skull.

_You could have walked away, Sherlock. But you didn't. So you'll see. You'll learn..._ _The flirting's over..._

"Don't touch him!" John's desperate whisper shivered through the flat. "Don't touch him. Don't." Still, he could see bruises forming, purpling blotching on perfect alabaster skin. Blunt, hurtful fingers digging into tender flesh. "Oh God." John gagged against the sight of Moriarty running his hand down Sherlock's bare abdomen, reaching into his waistband. _Daddy's tired of playing._

The cry that escaped Sherlock's lips didn't sound human. Every muscle of the long form tensed and corded, fighting against pure agony. John watched helpless, trapped just outside the room, forced to witness every excruciating second.

John's lungs shuddered, sharp, explosive bursts just this side of sobs. "Please, don't..."

The silver edge of a knife sliced private flesh in time with Moriarty's laughter, his sing-song cadence carrying over Sherlock's screams. _Who's the better man now? Winner takes all, right, Sherlock? Which part of you should I send to pet? Is this what he likes best? I'll send your brain to Scotland Yard. God knows, they need it. _

"You tidied up the place. Nice."

John pounded against the clear walls of his prison, screaming. "You want to cut somebody up, you fucking bastard, you take _me_! Not him! Not _ever_ him!" Tears blurred his vision and his lungs tried to shut down for good as he kept beating against the glass. "Not him...please...take me..."

"John?" Fog-grey eyes turned to him. _Oh God, he can see me._ "John, what in the name of God..." Bruised and battered from the knuckles of Moriarty's henchmen, Sherlock's lips formed words. Even through his screams, he managed words. "John, look at me."

"I'm sorry. Oh, God, I am _so_ sorry I left, I listened, I trusted...him." The blame wasn't Sherlock's; it was John's, and it was Moriarty's. John couldn't bear to meet those mercury eyes, but he couldn't move. "I'm so sorry..." The tears etched his cheeks, salt acid irritating his skin. _It's not enough, it's not_— "Take _me_, Moriarty, you son of a bitch!"

"John!" The caring in Sherlock's voice sent new tremors through John. "Listen to me. You're having a PTSD episode. I'm right here in front of you. Look at me." Strong fingers bit into John's forearms. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Stop being nonsensical. It's dull."

The silver knife glinted again, tracing a path from the hollow of Sherlock's throat down to his navel. Moriarty grinned. _I'll make sure they never find all of you, my dear. I think I'll keep your heart for myself. _

"No!"

"Doctor _Watson_!"

"Mycroft, shouting will not help anything."

"Mycroft? What the bloody hell..." The world wavered, shifting from blood-stained darkness to the afternoon glow of Baker Street, and the smoky gaze of Sherlock Holmes. "Sher...you...how...Oh, thank God!" Then nothing mattered to John but gathering up the very intact form of his formerly missing flatmate and holding him as tight as possible.

"I'll expect the both of you in my office tomorrow morning at nine for a full debriefing." Mycroft glanced over them and nodded once, a faint smile on his face. "John." He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

"John?"

"You're alive." The warm body in John's embrace confirmed the statement. Not that John intended to let go any time soon. Look what happened when he let Sherlock out of his sight. "You're not in little pieces. Oh Jesus Christ." He pulled back enough to look into that beloved face. "You're all right? Where are you hurt?"

Dark brows drew together slightly. "What are you talking about? I'm not hurt at all. I'm fine. What—"

John ground his mouth hard against Sherlock's. Fine. He was fine. The world spun like it ought. John drew back when he couldn't breathe and watched Sherlock blink, dazed, that glorious, acerbic mouth slack. Beautiful. Just heart-stoppingly beautiful. So much so John had to kiss him again. Perhaps a bit less violently this time, letting all the worry, the fear, the _love_ flowthrough.

When he surfaced for air this time, Sherlock didn't look any less dazed, but concern darkened his eyes a bit. "John. Are _you_ all right? When I came in, you—"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder is not a thing you mess with, Sherlock. And having the person you care about most on the face of the planet in the hands of a psychotic madman falls into the category of messing with it." John ran his hands and gaze over the detective, suddenly in doctor mode. "You really are all right. You're barely even rumbled." That caused a whole new loss of oxygen. "Where the _hell_ have you been? I've been losing my mind. Literally, as you well saw. What the fuck have you been doing?"

"Exactly what I said I was doing before. Negotiating." Moonlit eyes searched over his face. "You thought...oh. Oh. I suppose it could have looked like...you went back to the pool?" A blink. "Did you find my phone, by any chance? Hate to have to set up a new one all over again. Tedious."

"Found your...I nearly fucking died when they found your phone. You never go anywhere without the bleeding thing." John's fingers sank into Sherlock's biceps. "Are you out of your mind? I'm the one the Army nearly sectioned permanently, but you're fucking insane. You were _negotiating_ all this time? What were you negotiating - the next Geneva Convention? My God, Sherlock."

"Moriarty chose to draw the process out. It wasn't unexpected." Sherlock shrugged. "He rang up for meals, excused himself a number of times on supposed business, took at least six phone calls. I was hardly in a position to dictate the timetable, was I?" He sighed at the look John gave him. "_No_, I didn't eat anything he offered. I'm not stupid, John. Far from it."

"And you never thought add a phone call to me or to your brother to your side of the negotiations, you absolute wanker." John wasn't sure if he should punch Sherlock or just break down and cry. "It just never occurred to you at all, did it?"

"I assumed Moriarty would never agree to it, since he insisted on my leaving the mobile behind, so no, it didn't. Or not beyond a split-second." The gray gaze faltered a bit, darting off to the side. "I didn't realize you'd be so worried."

"So worried. You didn't realize I'd be so worried." John ran a hand down his face. "You're just unbelievable sometimes. Of _course_, I was worried. You idiot! You're in the hands of a man who's killed dozens of people this week! Yeah. Worried. A bit. Moron."

Sherlock reared back slightly. "I'm not accustomed to having a...to having people worry over me, John. It's not a usual experience." His shoulders lifted again. "And I was under the impression you were still rather peeved with me."

Of all the morons ever born, Sherlock had to top the list. "Yeah. That, too. It doesn't mean I wasn't worried. I can be mad at you and still love you, idiot."

"I'm sorry?" Grey eyes widened. "You... I must have heard you wrong. Possibly the lack of sustenance and sleep over the last twenty-three hours. For a moment I thought you said..."

"I love you. Yeah. I do. You're gonna make me old before my time, but I love you. Do you think I'd fall apart like this over someone I didn't care about? I might risk my life for just anyone, because, yeah, I do have a little bit of a hero complex. But I wouldn't risk my sanity, such as it is, for them. I wouldn't agree to risk my job and my reputation just about daily for someone who didn't mean the world to me. Everyone thinks we're a couple already. They all see it." John let his hand fall away, leaning back against the chair. "Everyone but you. There's one you missed. It's always something."

"But...the first night at Angelo's...you said..."

"Yeah, I said I wasn't hitting on you romantically. Love does come in other forms, you know. And I don't know anymore. Maybe it is romantic as well. Besides, I didn't love you then. Not really the point right now. The point is, you're not alone anymore. Ever. So you don't send me off to keep me safe, because I'd rather walk straight through hell with you than face the world without you." John watched the blink, then the stare, and tried not to flinch under its intensity. "Yeah, I love you, okay? Get used to it."

That really rather too-big mouth worked for a moment and John couldn't help grinning. "Speechless is sort of cute on you. Oh, so is the go-to-hell glare. I'm immune to both." He just broadened the grin. "Ain't love grand?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you having a go at me?"

"I think maybe it's deserved after the hell you put me through. Decided I can very much deal with one part of all this, though. Come here." He slipped his fingertips along the edge of Sherlock's hair. "I want to make absolutely sure you're really here and not just a mirage."

The urge to tease melted away as John read the confusion on Sherlock's face. John's left thumb stroked a gentle pattern on Sherlock's temple. "I've been so scared. All I could think of was you dying. All the different ways Moriarty could kill you."

"John—"

"Shh. I just want you to know, so you understand why this is important to me. You can tell me to piss off in a little while, but for right now, let me do this. Because all I've seen since you sent me away from your side is that fuck-up madman cutting you into pieces. I just need to know you're whole." John rose up on his knees, drawing Sherlock's body close as he welded their mouths together. This time, his mind possessed enough clarity he could appreciate the faintly acrid taste of the detective, the lush softness of his lips, the scent of London and fading cologne and _Sherlock _that clung to him.

He felt the start, the hesitation, the racing _what's it mean-what should I do-what is he going to do next_ through Sherlock's mind. The very moment when it all got shoved aside in favor of the experience, the analysis. And then the subtle melting against his mouth, Sherlock allowing himself to _feel_ for just one brief window of existence. And John realized Mycroft had been absolutely right.

John wasn't the only one in love. He was just the only one who dared show it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you sure about this? I was under the impression you're quite definitively—"

"I dunno. But we both need sleep and I don't want to let you out of my sight right now, okay?" John tugged Sherlock's hand as he moved toward the doorway. "Figured we'd be a bit cramped on the sofa, is all. We can stay down here if you want. I'd offer to make tea, but..." He felt his cheeks flash with heat. "Uh, we haven't got a dish left, unless you want to eat off your petri dishes and drink your tea out of a beaker."

"I don't...what? No. I don't want anything." Sherlock's frown tried to decipher several things at once. "Not that it would be the first time I've dined from my lab equipment, and as such I don't particularly care, but why don't we have more mundane china anymore?"

"Uh...well." John was saved from having to explain right away by a tap on the doorsill. He glanced over to see Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, standing there with an amused expression on her pretty face and a rather large and laden-down companion behind her.

"Two words from Mr. Holmes, John. 'Don't argue.' We'll just leave it on the table for you. Dinner will be delivered in about four hours." She gestured to the man with her and he set several good-sized boxes marked "Mason's China - Mandalay Blue" on the kitchen table. Anthea nodded and they left without another word.

Sherlock's raised brow left John blushing again. _Bloody hell, just say it and get it over with._ "I...smashed all the china and glasses in a fit of terrified pique?"

The brow climbed a bit higher. "All of it?" Sherlock ran a considerate eye over the boxes and exotic eyes widened. "Oh. Yes, all of it. Well, you had been saying you wished we could afford dishes that matched."

John let a huff of laughter work its way through his nasal passages. "Hell of a way to take care of the problem. I just..." The days of catnaps and stress and everything caught up with him and he leaned his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "God, let's get some sleep before the catering shows up. Sofa, my bed, your bed, I really don't care right now. Just let me stay with you."

He half-expected to be pushed away or told not to be dull. Instead he found long fingers curled about his wrist. "Yes. That is quite a decent idea. I found negotiating far more exhausting than running across London. I would not mind relaxing for a moment while I process everything and catalogue it properly."

"Okay." Back to normal, it would seem. John knew that would happen; after all, the whole point was that he loved Sherlock exactly as the man was. He just hadn't expected it to vanish quite so suddenly. _But it's okay. He knows, I know. It doesn't have to be said or demonstrated every second._ The painful twinge in his stomach would go away after some sleep. Sherlock was here and he was all right. The rest would wait. "So, sofa then?" Neutral territory.

"Don't be absurd. You said it would be cramped for both of us and rightly so. My bed is closest and larger than yours." Sherlock tugged on John's wrist. "It's also more comfortable. Yours is frankly too hard and hasn't enough pillows. And I prefer my duvet."

John blinked. _Wait a minute_. "How do you know how hard my bed is? And how many, or few, apparently, pillows I have?"

He received a _don't be an idiot_ look in answer. "I checked, of course."

"You checked?" The twinge in his stomach warmed a bit and he couldn't resist raising a brow of his own. "So, you what? Sneak up to my room when I'm at work and catnap?"

Oh, that was almost an eyeroll. "No. Your bed isn't comfortable."

John let the grin slip out. Too priceless to resist. "But you've been up there. Sniffing the pillows, were you?"

The faintest hint of rose appeared high on Sherlock's diamond-sharp cheekbones, petulance tensing his lips. "No." He leaned close, superior height forcing John to tilt his head to look up. "Did it never occur to you that you aren't the only one who doesn't care for being here all alone, John? You aren't the only one who worries when one of us isn't here." Sherlock opened his bedroom door and swept his arm in a grand gesture. His fingers fell away from John's wrist. "After you."

A few minutes later, John snuggled down into the rich folds of cotton, not bothered at all by the fact they both wore only boxers and T-shirts. He was too tired and too relieved to give it much thought at all. He turned over and watched Sherlock's brow furrow at the ceiling. "What did you agree to? In your...negotiations. You didn't actually agree to back off, to let him just go on with his diabolical schemes, did you?"

"Not completely, no." The frown deepened. "I had to offer him something, though." The detective gave a small huff and turned his head to John. A small smile appeared. "Nothing you need to worry about. It should be peaceful for a while."

"You can't tell me, can you? That was part of his terms. He's still trying to fuck with your head, drive a wedge between us." The soft flick of Sherlock's gaze back to the ceiling said more than any words could have. John entertained the mental image of snapping a skinny psychotic neck for a long moment before he let it go and settled back, his hands clasped behind his head. "Not happening. I trust you. You bought us time. And we won't underestimate him again. I can't shut off the worry completely, but I'll trust you on this. You'll let me know when it's time."

Deep laughter rolled into the corners of the room, filling it. "I told Moriarty it wouldn't matter." Sherlock rolled onto his side, face alight. "He didn't believe me. He's an idiot. For all his genius, he can't see you. That's why we'll win in the end."

"As long as you see me." John let his eyes drift closed, let the tension and the fear float up and out and away. He smiled when soft hair tickled his cheek and a warm weight settled next to him, relaxing, almost cuddling. John wrapped one arm around slim shoulders, pressing a kiss against dark curls. "He can try to make all the dark bargains he wants. But as long as you see me, damn straight we'll win."

Nothing had ever felt as good as Sherlock's arm about John's waist, pulling him close, holding him warm and secure. "I will always see you, John."

END


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